A Son of Aran (34 page)

‘I'll ask around when I go to Salamanca. I have a feeling pipe music is not the norm here, but you never know. Maybe some former seminarian had your affiliation to uileann pipes and left a set behind. If I can't get pipes, how would you like to try a flute or a tin whistle? These are somewhat similar to the chanter, and would afford you an opportunity to practice the various notes.'

When no uileann pipes could be located in Salamanca, Seosamh turned his attention to a gramaphone that Santa Clara found in an upstairs attic. Records that accompanied it were in Spanish but that didn't worry him. Songs by Nelson Eddy and John McCormack, evergreens in any language, were sweet to his ears; soon he was adding his own recollection of the lyrics. Flamenco coplas, played on guitar, provided a new dimension in instrumental music that he was unable to imitate without an instrument. Peadar and Eileen came to listen to the gramaphone.

‘Music has a powerful influence on us,' Seosamh exclaimed. ‘Do you know, I reckon there are worse penalties in life than being confined to a wheelchair. With more than one million pesetas in disability compensation on the way from the insurance company, I can afford tuition on any musical instrument of my choice. Wait until I get hold of a set of uileann pipes!'

The arrival of baby number two added to the responsibility of all members of the household. Seosamh was ecstatic as he held the little bundle in his arms in the maternity unit of Salamanca hospital.

‘Isn't she a darling,' he exclaimed as, from his wheelchair, he leaned forward to embrace Eileen who was still confined to bed. ‘A beauty like her mother,' he added, ‘where would she leave it? I remember, Eileen, the first time I took you in my arms when I carried you out of the tide in Aran after saving you from drowning. The little one reminds me of that event all over again.'

‘What name will we call her?' Eileen asked when she and Seosamh were alone. ‘Had you a particular name in mind— your own mother's, perhaps?'

‘No, not my mother, much as she means to me—if I have a choice, there's only one name I want to call our daughter— it is Eileen Óg, the spit and image of her mother, closest to the name of my wife and sweetheart.'

‘I fear I will become jealous of another Eileen in your life,' she said laughingly, but I'll take a chance on that. Thank you, Seosamh, my husband and best friend. Eileen Óg it shall be.'

‘Would you like to see our new transport?' Eileen asked when the day arrived for her to leave hospital. ‘Now that our family has become more numerous, having regard to the need to accommodate your wheelchair, I have chosen a high roofed sleeper van. It is more expensive than our first car but the insurance company has compensated us to the extent of two thirds the value of the Taurus. If we want to go away for a break at any time, the vehicle will double as a sleeper, and will solve the problem of booking into hotels and guest houses that haven't facilities for a wheelchair. I think you're going to like the spacious interior and the special controls that can be operated by hand. When we get insurance cover, you will have your dream of being able to drive again.'

‘Super, Eileen, I approve entirely of your choice; I love you for having considered my disability. May we all have many years of safe and pleasant driving in our new coach! We'll get Father Benedictus to raise his hand over it in blessing before we leave for Estat de Tirelle.'

I
T WAS NINETEEN FIFTY NINE. THE FRANCO ADMINISTRATION
in Spain had become increasingly despotic. Rumours of harrassment, imprisonment, and torture of persons deemed to be antagonistic to the regime, were rife. Nobody felt safe; it was sufficient for a person to be fingered by an enemy, to incur the attention of the authorities—guilty and innocent were subjected to the same vile treatment. Foreigners and ETA sympathisers were especially suspect of being antiestablishment. Without creating suspicion, Seosamh, Eileen, and family, would be glad of an acceptable reason to leave the country for a period until things settled down. Restrictions had been imposed on sending money out of Spain. Seosamh's insurance compensation and the income from rents accruing to Eileen from the smallholders, had accumulated in the special account set up for their benefit by Father Benedictus. In the interests of safeguarding their money, she would welcome an opportunity of getting it back to Ireland.

A valid reason to return arose unexpectedly. Seánín Mhicil Dubh and Cáit decided at last to tie the knot. Seánín, having no close relative of his own, wanted Peadar as best man at their wedding.

‘Didn't we both save each others lives in one way or another,' he said to Cáit. ‘There is no way I am going to get married until Peadar returns.'

A wedding invitation, designed by Cáit, reached the Irish group at Estat de Tirelle. Peadar, Eileen, Seosamh, and children, were to attend—regrets would not be accepted.

Preparations were put in place without attracting undue attention. Evoking sentiments of joy and exhiliration at the wedding invitation, Santa Clara and Jago's family were told in confidence of their plans. Arrangements for looking after Estat de Tirelle in their absence were put in place— a day was fixed for departure. The sleeper was loaded to capacity with personal effects and essential items for the journey. Driven by a woman accompanied by two young children, a wheelchair-bound husband, and an elderly father, an Irish group returning to their country for a family wedding was unlikely to draw unwarranted attention at the border checkpoint with France. With high hopes they set out for San Sebastian en route to Bayonne and Biarritz.

‘I suggest,' said Eileen, ‘that, on the way, we should say a prayer over Philip's grave, try to obtain further information surrounding his death, and take what remains of his possessions back to Galway for his family's sake.'

Seosamh wasn't too sure that Eileen's suggestion was a good idea.

‘We may be asked what we are doing in Basque country,' he said. ‘You know how travellers are screened by the Guardia Civil.'

‘We have to go through Basque territory in any event on our way to Bayonne,' Peadar interjected. ‘If we are questioned, we can truthfully say we were visiting the grave of a Dominican seminarian who died a few years ago on his way to Ireland.'

‘We'll take the chance,' Eileen decided. ‘It would appear uncharitable to his family if we were to pass close by and not pay our respects.'

Father Fariano extended a cordial welcome to the Irish group when they paid him a visit. He spoke to them at length about Philip whom he had met during a brief vacation in the home of one of his parishioners. He explained how, in his desire to repay their kindness, accompanied by the daughter of the house, Philip volunteered to collect a consignment of farm seeds for them at Bilbao. Unknown to him the sacks contained, not seeds, but arms for the ETA organisation. On their way home they were ambushed by Guardia Civil personnel. Both Philip and the girl were killed. Immediately afterwards the Guardia officers were themselves intercepted by ETA men and taken prisoner. Having commandered the cache of arms, the bodies of those killed were taken to his church by the organisation for secret burial. He had not been told what became of the captured policemen.

Having treated them to a repast of locally baked bread, cheese, and cider, the priest took them to the cemetery where he pointed out the graves of Philip and Elsa, side by side, each marked by a simple stone cross. After reciting some prayers together, he blessed them, and bade them safe passage to Ireland. In parting, he presented Eileen with Philip's rosary beads, his watch, and the photograph he had treasured so much. A tear came to her eye as she gazed on it at length—a warm summer evening, dressed in a light floral cotton frock topped by a broad rimmed bonnet, boats on the Corrib, young bloods paddling their loved ones upstream to some shady nook, romance in the air. How old was she, eighteen, perhaps? Thoughts of young love are not easily eroded from memory! Wiping the tear away, she replaced the photograph in its envelope.

‘Señora, to where are you travelling? May I see your passport and driver's licence please. Also the passports of your companions—are all of you related? Hm, I see you are of Irish nationality—how long have you been resident in Spain? What is the purpose of your journey to Ireland?'

Following inspection of the documents, the customs officer had more questions: ‘Are you carrying any goods that are liable to customs duties? Have you in your possession any firearms, drugs, or alcoholic spirits? I wish to examine the contents of your vehicle—everybody out please—everything on the road; what is the purpose of this wheelchair?'

Eileen took the two children. Peadar linked Seosamh and sat him down on the wheelchair.

‘One moment; I wish to see if anything is stowed under-neath your cushion. All right, you may sit. May I ask how you come to need a chair?'

While Seosamh explained that he had been involved in a car accident, the man proceeded to rifle through every box and garment. Having found nothing dutiable, he helped to restore the articles to the vehicle, and waved them forward. They crossed into French territory.

‘Huh, that guy didn't leave much to chance,' Seosamh remarked. ‘Smart as he was, he didn't detect the Spanish currency notes sewn into my wheelchair cushion.'

‘Don't crow too soon,'Eileen replied, ‘we must cross two more frontiers before we reach home.'

Leaving behind the Pyrenees and Basque country the two-day journey via Bordeaux, Poitiers and Nantes was uneventful. Seosamh and Peadar shared the sleeping van, while Eileen and the children checked into a hotel at night. At Cherbourg they boarded the ferry for Southampton where customs examination, production of passports, and inspection of the vehicle and its contents, again took place. Tourist traffic was heavy—their vehicle was waved through with a minimum of delay.

‘Two down, one to go,' Peadar commented. ‘I never knew there was such formality in travelling from one country to another. The authorities appear to look with suspicion on everyone that passes through. Do they think we are all subversives or smugglers at heart?'

‘Some of us, only,' Seosamh laughed.

On the road again en route to Hollyhead—avoiding London, they passed through Reading, Birmingham, and Chester, ‘all big centres of Irish population,' Peadar informed them.

‘At least,' he said, ‘I understand what people are saying over here, not like those bloody Spaniards. Maybe we should stop somewhere—I could punish a good pint of Guinness.'

‘What about these Welsh placenames?' Seosamh asked humourously, as he read names from signposts along the route, ‘do you think you could get your tongue around Merthyr Tydfal, Dinas Mawddwy, or Melin-y-ddol?'

‘When you have travelled as far as I have, you'll not wonder at unusual names of places,' Peadar replied with a touch of sarcasm. Seosamh took his cue—he remained silent for a long time afterwards.

Eileen negotiated her way through a welter of motor traffic onto the pier at Hollyhead.

‘Everybody into line,' the controller shouted. ‘Order please, you'll all get there if you have patience.'

While they awaited their turn to go aboard, Peadar stretched his legs to look at the accumulation of trucks and containers that lined the wharf.

‘Did you ever see such traffic?' he commented to another Irish man who was similarly taking the air before going on board. ‘I never knew there was so much trade in goods between our two countries.'

‘Exports and imports keep economies ticking over,' the man said. ‘It would never do if countries kept all the stuff they produce for themselves. Trading is the name of the game. What would farmers in Ireland do with their cattle, sheep, and pigs, if they hadn't an outlet for them in Britain?'

‘Tis funny how we hate the English,' Peadar remarked, ‘but we cannot do without them.

Come on, it's time we were making tracks—we wouldn't want the ferry to Ireland to sail without us.'

‘Dirty Dublin, here we come,' Seosamh shouted, as the Pigeon House and city chimney stacks came into view in a surround of smog and smoke. Peadar had carried him on deck in order that he could get a better view. Gathered at the prow of the ship, a group of American ladies cried copiously with emotion as they looked at Killiney Head basking in morning sunshine.

‘What a wonderful sight,' one lady exclaimed. ‘I lived there with my dear late husband for fifteen years before we emigrated. They were the happiest days of my life.'

‘I wasn't fortunate or wealthy enough to live there,' another replied, ‘but we passed Killiney Hill every Sunday on our way to the seaside at Bray. I envied people who lived on Vico Road, their gardens overflowing with flowering trees and shrubs.'

‘They were the days,' a third woman commented. ‘In our youthful enthusiasm we couldn't wait to get away; all that's left to us in our declining years are memories coupled with thoughts of what might have been. Let's collect our luggage before the ship docks. I wonder if any of our relatives will be here to meet us!'

‘Sloppy sentimentality,' Seosamh commented to Peadar. ‘They have their God-given faculties and still they're not happy. At least we know we have Seánín and Cáit waiting for us in Galway, and Máirtín, Sorcha, my mother and brother, all pleased to see us when we get to Aran.'

‘
As Aran díbh?
(you are from Aran?),' the officer said to Eileen, as she drove through the customs checkpoint at Dunlaoire. ‘
Gluaisteán Spáinneach atá á thiomáint agat
(you are driving a Spanish registered car).
Cén chaoi a thárlíann sin?
(how does that come about),' he asked.

Eileen explained to him that she, her husband, her children, and her father, lived in Spain. Her husband had been injured in an automobile accident. They were coming to Aran for the wedding of a friend who wanted her father to be his best man.